


compass pointing northward

by rojohbi



Series: observance [2]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Charles POV, First Meetings, M/M, Prequel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:28:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22365637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rojohbi/pseuds/rojohbi
Summary: Charles doesn’t particularly like Arthur, but thinks that maybe that’s not quite accurate. He doesn’t trust Arthur, but wants to like him enough that it’s making Charles somewhat wary. Hesitant to look too long, to look at all.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith
Series: observance [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1609957
Comments: 6
Kudos: 82





	compass pointing northward

**Author's Note:**

> im back! this is a prequel to an act of observance, beginning where charles joins the gang. im not even going to bother guessing how long this will end up bc i get way too involved every single time i write a chapter fic
> 
> you don't need to read aaoo first, it's your preference. this does have a bit less substance if you haven't read it though!
> 
> enjoy, leave me suggestions, and feel free to leave prompts for this series or anything else! ily guys

November in the Grizzlies is cold and unforgiving, and Charles is feeling it’s wrath. 

Surviving has always been something of a sport for him, no longer a test of nature against man but a long feud that generally simmers and only occasionally rises to a boil. Yet even for the expert, winter in the mountains is nothing to be taken lightly. It’s a fight that Charles knows he can win but still doesn’t take any chances with. 

Pack full of food, salted meats and grains, nothing in cans that will stick to his frozen skin and flay his aching fingers. Guns holstered and away for the same reason, though still accessible. His bow is his primary weapon, always at the ready and vastly preferable to the ricocheting echo of a gunshot through the valleys and walls of the mountains. Wolves and the deadly cold are the only things liable to actually kill him, but their chances of doing so if he isn’t careful are better than his chances of surviving a chance encounter. 

Charles had been planning to cross the Ambarino region in order to get to the eastern tribes without running into any major settlements. Towns around Lemoyne or West Elizabeth made him extremely visible, and therefore an immediate target when traveling alone. He’d been with a caravan for a little over a month, but even then it did little to keep him from being noticed in places he’d rather not be. 

He might be safe, if he was quick and kept to the woods and plains. His chances were still better in Ambarino, with the wolves and the chill and the ultimate neutrality of nature. 

The snow is heavy and packed, obscuring any existing trails that he might be able to follow, but Charles follows any animal tracks he can find to guide him down a steep slope as safely as possible. He finds a decrepit old home on the edge of a lake that will keep him warm for a while, and is grateful for his luck. The snow is getting heavier, and is beginning to soak through his players of clothing. It will freeze to his skin soon, if he doesn’t take advantage of the lakehouse.

Charles is nearly to the house, maybe another ten minutes at his current pace, when smoke begins to roll from the chimney and the small windows are lit with the light of a fire. He hadn’t seen horses, but the rocky outcroppings and an oddly angled covered stable behind the house mean that they could be easily hidden. He’d assumed it was empty because everything was empty, save for a creature seeking shelter from time to time. It was a deadly assumption, now that he’d wasted time coming around the safe side of the lake to get to the house. 

The storm would likely kill him, were he to trek on long enough to find a new shelter, sparse as shelter was in these parts. He was better off seeing if the lake house's occupants were keen to share their safety, and seeking alternate shelter only if that went poorly. Usually, people who are driven to stay in such conditions are sympathetic to others in the same position.

Usually.

Approaching the lakehouse slowly and with all his weapons sheathed and away, Charles takes off his gloves and raises his freezing hands in a peaceful surrender.

“Hello?” He calls out, nervous but steeled for whatever he might find. This close, he had been able to hear the slight murmur of voices, but they silenced at his call. After a tense moment, the door cracked open and a rough-looking blonde man stepped out with a vicious rifle held easily in his large hands and pointed at Charles.

“What’dya want?” The man calls back, his voice gravelly and suspicious. Charles is unsure of whether he even wants to share the shelter with whomever has taken it up, but the bite of cold against his bare fingers is enough to curb his instinct to isolate. 

“Just shelter,” Charles calls back. “I’ll be moving on tomorrow, but we both know this storm will kill me if I don’t get out of the cold.” The man just stares at him, clearly undecided, and snaps something quietly back at an unintelligible voice from the house. “I have some food, to make it worth your while.”

That seems to be enough to peak someone’s interest from inside, because a different voice barks, “Just let the man in, Arthur, you oversized guard dog.” The man with the rifle, Arthur, rolls his eyes and lets the rifle drop from being directly pointed in Charles’ direction. He’s still readied though, as if to say, _Don’t try anything_.

As if he would. Charles is nearly ready to weep in relief at the mere idea of a true fire for the night.

Stepping onto the porch of the house, Charles nods at Arthur gratefully. He’s relatively handsome, and clearly the muscle of whatever their group is. About the same size as Charles, if an inch or a few shorter, with a nose clearly broken more than a handful of times. His expression is hard and attentive, and Charles can’t blame him for it when he realizes that inside are way more people than he’d been expecting. 

A woman with a young son, who's clearly been crying for a long while now. Two other women are comforting her - one of them dark-skinned, which comforts Charles greatly. A few more men and women are sleeping or eating scraps of food, bundled up and clearly desperate. One of the men stands, and the immediate silence that ensues tells Charles that this is their leader.

“Welcome to paradise, friend,” the man says with a laugh. He’s smooth, charming. Charles is suspicious off the bat, but he can’t deny feeling strangely at ease as the man ushers him inside and right beside the fire. “What’s your name?”

Charles pulls back the somewhat obscuring hood of his coat, looking him and everyone else watching in the eye. “Charles Smith,” he says, nodding again in greeting to each face turned up to him. They do not look afraid, and it eases Charles enough that he kneels beside the fire and places his hands as close as he can without burning himself.

“Dutch Van der Linde,” the leader says, and there is a pause after that makes Charles feel like they are waiting for a certain reaction. When he says nothing, Dutch chuckles and nods, seemingly relieved. He sees Dutch flick his hand deliberately, dismissively, and thinks that maybe Arthur had been readied for a poor reaction of some kind. Charles makes it very clear that he didn’t notice a thing, and keeps his guard up. 

“What brings you to the Grizzlies, Mister Smith?” The older man who’d been sat beside Dutch speaks up, leaning forward to reach out and shake Charles’ hand. “Hosea Mathews, a pleasure. We don’t run into many in these parts, which I’m sure you can sympathize with.”

“I can,” Charles says, and watches as Arthur sits down beside Hosea. A younger hispanic man moves to make room for him even before he reaches the spot, making Charles think Arthur must be one of the primary members of their group. A caravan, or perhaps a gang. Interesting. “I’m moving east, but I don’t fear the mountains. It was safer to move this way than through the plains.”

“Mm. Clearly so,” Hosea says, thoughtful. He has a smooth demeanor, too smooth to be unpracticed, but he still sets off far fewer alarms than Dutch had. “You’re safe here for the night, at least. I know you’ve no reason to take us at our word, but you’re certainly free to get however comfortable you’d like to. Anything you could carry in that pack of yours, I’m sure we’ve already got.”

“Ah - right,” Charles murmurs, remembering, and slides his pack off in order to sift through its contents. The child, maybe three or four and already far too gaunt, seats himself beside Charles with a comfortable curiosity that says they’ve encountered strangers often. It reassures Charles, too, as the boy starts pointing at things and asking about them. His arrows, handmade and fletched with the mismatched feathers of felled birds. His hair, braided and beaded in the way of the Plains Cree. His skin, darker than other natives’ due to his split heritage. 

Charles’ answers are short and direct, and he’s relieved when it doesn’t put the boy off his questioning. His mother dissuades him at one point, saying “I’m sorry for Jack, it’s just been some time since we’ve met anyone new.” Her name is Abigail, and she has the sharp face of a woman who has seldom cowered in her life yet hasn't been hardened by that fact. Charles likes her and her son immensely, and without doubt.

“No need for apologies,” Charles says to her, soft and easy, and then says to Jack, “You’re smart. Keep asking questions, it will always do you well.”

He hands a strip of salted deer to Jack and revels in the pleased noise he gets in return. Charles watches curiously as Jack, without hesitation, begins breaking it into pieces and handing the bits off to others. Charles hands Jack three more strips of the meat, and allows the boy to distribute it. It feels fair somehow, like there’s no way to really dispute the act of a child. It also speaks strongly to their unity, their loyalty, the morals born and bred into this group of ragtag people clearly running from something.

Charles meets Arthur’s eye while watching Jack flutter around the cabin. He looks less suspicious than before, taken over more now by something intrigued. Still wary, of course - Charles still is himself - but he seems to be paying attention now to more than just any quick movements. 

“Thank you for your generosity,” Charles says, “I hope you’ll forgive me asking for one more thing.” 

“Being?” Hosea says, leaning back against the wall with a curious lift to his brow. 

“A damn cigarette.”

Arthur coughs a laugh, clearly startled. Dutch laughs as well, followed by Hosea and a few of the others that were paying attention. It’s charming, and makes Charles decide to trust them. Lightly, and only for now, but trust nonetheless.

“C’mon with me,” Arthur says, grunting as he stands. “I’m sure I’ve got a few in my saddlebag you can take for your own.”

It’s surprisingly generous, and Charles nods as he stands to follow. 

The cold is more bitter, more biting now that he’s been tucked up by a fire for an hour or two. It’s fierce, but ignorable as Arthur leads him around an outcropping where the wind is blocked. There are horses, maybe ten or twelve, and various wagons packed with supplies. It’s impressive that Charles hadn’t seen any trace of them leading up to the lake or the cabin, but it was also snowing heavily enough to cover tracks in hardly an hour.

“You on foot, then?” Arthur asks as he digs through a saddlebag, producing a half-full pack of cigarettes and offering them to Charles after taking one for himself. They’re somewhat crushed, one or two of them surely broken, and the best thing Charles has ever seen. They’re a relief, after weeks of being too far from civilization to partake in any luxuries. 

“No,” Charles starts, then pauses as Arthur strikes a match for the both of them. The sweet, acrid taste of the smoke draws a sigh out of him. “My horse is up the mountainside, not too far. She’s safe and fed, for the moment. I had doubts that any shelter adequate for me would have space for her, and I couldn’t move quickly enough with all the supplies, so I had to compromise.”

Arthur nods, humming thoughtfully as he closes his saddlebags back up. He looks at Charles thoughtfully, then huffs a laugh. “Well, shit. You wanna go get her? We can ride, borrow Nell or somethin’ and bring her here right quick. If you leave your things here, you can be sure no one will know it’s here. It’s not a guarantee that your things won’t get stolen, but it’s the closest I can give you to a promise.”

Charles thinks for a moment, having few hesitations but not willing to seem too eager to trust. “Yes,” he says slowly, after a thoughtful pause. “I would appreciate that.”

“Alright, then,” Arthur says, and flicks at the brim of his hat as if it helps him think. He takes the reigns of a sturdy-looking Kentucky Saddler and leads her to Charles, who greets the mare with quiet words and a gentle hand. The mare seems pleased after a moment of uncertainty, and lets Charles place his palm against her neck, flat and firm. Arthur watches with idle interest, a long line of ash clinging to the end of his cigarette as it burns away quickly in the cold. “Her name is Nell. Well, Nell the Second, but she answers to Nell. Seems like she takes to you well enough,” he says, perhaps a bit more kindly than before. 

“I take well to horses,” Charles says, by way of explanation. That seems to be enough for Arthur, because he simply hums, mounts his own horse without another word and clicks her into motion toward the cabin. Only a moment behind him, Charles leaves his pack and takes only his bow and quiver, mounting the mare without even a nicker from her.

Arthur hollers to Dutch, and explains to him where they’re going when the man steps outside to inquire. He doesn’t ask Dutch, which Charles finds interesting considering the apparent dynamic of the group. It’s further proof that Arthur is one of the primary members, and holds more power than one would assume at first glance. Yet, he doesn’t seem particularly smart or talented, aside from sheer strength. It must’ve just been duration, then, that put him in such a high position of power. No matter your personal use, seniority will always prove a point in gangs as loyal as this one seems. 

They follow the bare remnants of Charles' tracks through the snow, not too far buried by the storm due to Charles’ being on foot going down the slope. Landmarks help too, and an arrow jammed into a rock’s crevice to point the right way when the path forks and drops off dangerously in the opposite direction. The walkway is narrow, but not treacherously so, and leads to a relatively hidden cavern in the stone where Taima stands, nonplussed but clearly pleased to see Charles. Taima and Nell II sniff each other curiously, but Taima is otherwise occupied as Charles dismounts and immediately buries a hand in the loose layers of her mane. He tugs on one of her braids, and Taima chuffs, twisting her neck to nip at him playfully. Charles chuckles, and digs through one of the smaller saddlebags to grab a handful of sweet, small mushrooms. Taima happily takes a few, and Charles looks to Arthur before offering some to Nell II or his own mare. Arthur is leaned forward in his saddle, arms folded just above the horn and face lit as he laughs quietly. 

“You are,” he starts, waving Charles on as he feeds a handful of mushrooms to the other two mares. “Not really what you seem,” Arthur settles on after a moment of thought, which actually draws a soft laugh out of Charles himself. 

“I suppose so.” Charles doesn’t shrug, but his tone conveys the action just as clearly. Arthur snorts, shaking his head. 

“Well, if that’s everything, let’s head on back. I’m sure your girl there is ready for some real rest.”

The ride back is quick, downhill and fresh with tracks as Nell II follows behind them diligently. Dark is beginning to settle in by the time they get back to the lake, and the lakehouse is a dot of light and smoke that brings surprising comfort to Charles.

As they get the horses back to the alcove along with the rest and dismount, and Charles gets Taima untacked, the two men are silent. It’s comfortable, an ease that Charles wouldn’t have thought them capable of so quickly after meeting. Charles doesn’t particularly like Arthur, but thinks that maybe that’s not quite accurate. He doesn’t trust Arthur, but wants to like him enough that it’s making Charles somewhat wary. Hesitant to look too long, to look at all.

Taima finally settled and integrated with the rest of the horses with relative ease, the two make their way back to the cabin. Charles intends to maintain the silence, unwilling to encourage further indecision on his own part. Yet, he can’t deny himself one final curiosity. 

“What’s your mare’s name?”

“What?” Charles doesn’t look up from where he’s watching his feet, walking carefully through the deep snow. 

“Your mare - an Arabian? What’s her name?”

“Adelaide.” Charles realizes that he no longer hears Arthur’s footsteps, and looks back. Arthur stopped a few paces behind him, bearing a strange expression that Charles has no hope of interpreting and wishes he didn’t care to understand. There’s a moment of hesitation before Arthur moves to catch up, no longer looking at Charles or anything at all for longer than a moment. “Her name is Adelaide.”


End file.
